


Signal-To-Noise

by brynnmck



Category: American Idol RPF, David Cook (Musician)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Your guitarist doesn't say much, does he?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signal-To-Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the tulsa_gangstas advent calendar. Thanks to dugrival for cheerleading!

Dave doesn't usually really mind doing press. He meets interesting people, and hey, there are worse things than being contractually obligated to talk about himself and his friends, even if it does mean answering the same seven questions five hundred times.

This guy, though. This guy is straight out of Plastic Reporter Dude Central Casting, with his lacquered-down hair and his crisp suit and his empty fake-friendly eyes. When he leans forward to shake Dave's hand, Dave can see Andy raising his eyebrows over the guy's shoulder in a manner clearly meant to convey, _Hey, Reporter Ken comes with a Gladhanding Grip!_ Awesome. And sure enough, every question is canned, and it's not so much a conversation as Reporter Guy delivering a weirdly-spaced monologue, with pauses long enough for his digital recorder to catch a few sound bytes for later. 

It's tempting to say something totally random just to fuck with him, but Dave has learned a very healthy fear and respect when it comes to his publicist. So he gives the canned answers to the canned questions, and Andy chimes in every once in a while, and Neal just sits there, middle finger worrying at a hangnail on his thumb. And it's fine, and it's stupid but whatever, they're almost done, and then suddenly, the reporter guy inclines his patronizing hair toward Neal.

"Your guitarist doesn't say much, does he?" he asks, like Neal isn't even in the room, or maybe his ear gauges make him deaf. 

Dave thinks about words in his own mouth, words in Andy's mouth, words scrawled across notebooks and napkins and receipts and, one blurry evening, the third stall door of the men's bathroom at the Tractor Tavern in Omaha ( _"Just gotta get this down, Dave, don't wanna forget." "Yes. Because you definitely won't be forgetting anything about tonight." "Fuck you, you fucking sarcastic fucker." "That's beautiful, you should write that down, too."_ ). And he almost laughs right in Plastic-Ass Reporter Dude's face, but it's not even worth it.

He slants a grin sideways at Neal instead. "Yeah, well," he says. "I'm the strong, he's the silent. It works."

Reporter Guy… well, the sound is best described as a _chuckle_ , really, like Ward Cleaver at The Beav's antics. Because he's a douche. But he's not the audience, so it's not until Neal drops his head to his chest and snorts out a laugh that Dave sits back, mission accomplished.

Later, he climbs on the bus with his pre-show buzz just starting to prickle under his skin and Neal ambushes him, bending Dave into a headlock and trapping him against the side wall with a hip-check.

"Who's the strong one, again?" he demands.

"Fuck you," Dave coughs into Neal's side, jabbing ineffectually toward what he thinks might be Neal's kidneys. Meanwhile, Neal's knuckle is digging into the top of Dave's head, relentless. Dave swats at him. "Cut it out! I need to keep the hair I have, asshole!"

Neal presses him harder against the wall. "Say it, bitch!"

"Fine, fine." Dave's gasping for breath now, between Neal's weight and his own laughter. He tries to wrap his calf around Neal's, get some leverage, but it's useless. Fucking physics. He pitches his voice high. "Oh, Neal, you're so strong and manly. Take me now, you beefy hunk of man meat!"

"Hey," Joey says mock-sternly, leveling a finger at them as he squeezes past on his way to the back. "No sex before the big game."

"Hey, thanks for the help, Clement!" Dave calls after him. "Man, I am _so_ firing all your asses. You hear me? You're all fucking fired!"

Neal's shaking with laughter now, which loosens his grip enough that Dave can wiggle free and shove him away. Neal stumbles over his own boots and hits the opposite wall with a satisfying thump.

"You can't fire us," he says, back against the wall, breathing hard and giving Dave the bright, sweet smile that hits a lot harder than the headlock had.

But that's no excuse to let him think he's won, so Dave just raises an eyebrow at him. "And why is that, exactly?" 

"Because we fucking rock and you know it."

Dave snorts, but Neal just goes on smugly, "Besides, we know _allllllll_ your shit, Heartthrob." 

"Yes!" comes Andy's voice from behind the curtain of his bunk. "I have TMZ on speed-dial!"

Dave flips the curtain the bird. "And again, so helpful! Thank you. I have _seriously_ got to get some better friends."

Neal crosses his arms and grins. "See? You're stuck with us forever, dude."

And out of nowhere, looking around at the disgusting bus that he's been living on for months, which smells like feet and Cheez-Its and the same fucking flavor of incense that Andy's been buying as long as Dave's known him, and is strewn with guitar strings and picks and drumsticks and empty beer cans… Dave can feel his eyes start to burn. He's given the canned answers so many times, he sometimes forgets that this is all actually real.

"Aww, shit," says Neal, levering himself up off the wall, "there he goes. I need more booze for this." But he grabs the back of Dave's neck on his way by, a quick, rough caress that ends in a sweep over the top of Dave's head, ruffling his hair.

Dave grins at his back, and swallows the momentary… _allergy attack_ so he can breathe easily again. Yeah, Neal says a lot, really. You just have to know how to listen.


End file.
